


Psithurism

by Le_Creationist



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: REALLY vague Thranduil/Tauriel, could even be Thranduil/Canoncial wife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:31:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3880603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Creationist/pseuds/Le_Creationist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Psithurism - definition: the sound of rustling leaves.</p><p>Thranduil and Arwen meet in the Fourth Age of the Sun. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psithurism

The leaves rustle under her slippered feet while she walks and the sturdy trees surround her on her path. They are majestic in their own right, she thinks, even as she encounters parts of the forest that are left scorched by a battle fought long ago. Some part of her longs for the golden Mallorn of her grandmother’s realm. In the end, she is glad. She does not relish the thought of their barren eaves, nor the prospect of fading away beneath them.

There is something distinct about the slant of this forest’s light. Perhaps it is she who does not see it as she once did. She is old now, older than most who now roam the earth. She must stop to rest her aching body. The journey has stolen what little energy her great age has left her.

The afternoon comes and goes peacefully. So too does the light in the quiet glade where she rests, and her throat tightens when she recalls how it dimmed in her husband’s eyes ere his passing. Her father’s words are but a distant memory. They are not less true, not less painful.

_I was the evening star of my people until I made the choice of Lúthien. The bitter and sweet of it, though until my husband’s death, I had known far more of the latter than the former. Shall there be only darkness and doubt hereafter?_

She wanders without intent or goal until she comes to a bridge that spans a formidable river. The water is louder than the rhythm of her thoughts. She welcomes the noise, relishes the inability to hear herself think.

Of all places, she has come to an Elven settlement. That much is clear when she enters it. The place is unmistakably beautiful, like her father’s house at the height of its splendor. She roams the empty halls, a passive observer. Her mortal body has not hungered or thirsted and the remnants of food and drink left in the cellars do not pose any temptation to her.

Her kin inhabited this place once. She can imagine their sweet songs and merry-making, their tears and laughter. She knew them not, but the echoes of their lives are impossible to ignore. She remembers the infancy of her own children, how quickly they grew—far faster than any elfling. The gift of the Edain, they called it. Time had long been her ally. When she saw her husband’s step falter and the worry in Eldarion’s eyes, she learned that time would forevermore be her enemy.

Her wandering mind did not realize where her feet have borne her until she comes to yet another winding bridge. She follows the carven path with her eyes to find she is not alone.

“Arwen Undómiel,” A sonorous voice greets her from the end of the path. She stands utterly still. “I did not expect such…illustrious company.”

She is startled, after going so long without any interaction. She did not think to hear her native tongue spoken to her ever again. It takes her a moment before she meets her addresser’s piercing gaze.

“King Thranduil. I heard it said you ventured West with your son.” Arwen traverses the space between them. Slow, regal steps. She is and has been a queen these long years, clad in the fine garments of her husband’s people. There is no retinue to escort her yet she will not subject herself to mockery.

“Your eyes do not deceive you. I am very much before you.” He is striking to behold, though there is no court to preside over. He is as alone as she, perched high on his throne.

“There can only be one reason you are here.” The way his voice twists in silken tones sets her on edge. She is hard-pressed to believe that this king could have sired Legolas; he who nursed the forests of the South back to thriving. Where Legolas emanated goodwill, his father exudes a sense of cloaked lethality.

Arwen finds she cannot speak past the risen lump in her throat. Estel is buried, his tomb sealed with a statue above it that will never capture his true likeness. She looks at Thranduil, bereft of speech.

He knows. She need not give her husband’s death voice. The only soul within a hundred leagues can read her like an open book. He likely wonders how it feels to have relinquished the Valar’s grace. If she would choose differently, knowing now the pain of eternal parting.

Arwen Evenstar watches the Elvenking’s bright eyes, where there is some hidden grief in their depths. The silence between them stretches until she grows weary of the moment. One hundred years spent among Men has left her ill-equipped for the opacity of elven mystery.

Thranduil stands, his silver robes brushing the edges of the stairs as he descends toward her.

 _Come with me,_  his gaze compels her wordlessly. She follows, down paths she would surely have lost were it not for his presence. They walk together until they arrive in some central garden within his Halls, where vines of fragrant jasmine and magnolia trees grow.

Arwen feels comforted by the space. The high ceilings have enough apertures to allow in moonlight though the abundant white blossoms give off faint light as they do their scent. She can feel the soft grass through her thin shoes. In the midst of this perfection, the mortal queen takes the Elf-king’s slender hand.

“Hannon le.” She tells him. He inclines his head. Any trace of mockery has long vanished from his expression. He knows what she means to do, and he has brought her here out of respect. She thinks she is alone again when she lays herself down beneath the magnolia tree, but she hears the Elf-king’s voice raised in quiet song from some far-off place.

 _When will we meet again, sweetheart?_  
_When will we meet again?_  
_When the autumn leaves that fall from trees_  
_Are green and spring up, again._

**Author's Note:**

> I’d been wanting to write this for a while. Not sure if it’s any good, I might try to improve it in the future. The last few lines are from “The Unquiet Grave” as sung by Helen McRory in the tv show Penny Dreadful.


End file.
